Page 48 of The Alpha's Fake Mate
When I swallowed, my eyes automatically closed in pleasure.
His voice intruded. “Good?”
Better than good.But aloud, I said, “It’s fine.”
I had not intended to be a glutton, but I saw the bottom of the soup bowl in a very short time.
Soon, the salad course was delivered.
I was already full by the time we got to our steaks, which melted in the mouth; I could only eat half.
Dessert came after, orange and lime sherbet served in cold, polished silver cups.
Both my hands went to my stomach when we were done, pressing down on the fullness there.
Orion smiled.
It wasn’t that I went hungry at the farm. Far from it. We were fed three squares every day, and put on exercise schedules to remain fit. But the food there was simpler. And though Omegas cooked for us and served it, it wasn’t formal but more cafeteria style. It was plain and simple food, and shared with a bunch of other squirming, hungry Omegas who could often be loud and obnoxious even though we were taught otherwise.
This was—well—snobbier. And my dinner partner was definitely a snob, rich and highly educated, as privileged as they came. Orion. Who kept smiling at me. Who kept being too infernally polite.
A voice in my head stated firmly,If not for him you’d be with Bosk now. Only two hours ago, at five pm, he would have come for you and dragged you away forever.
I hated that inner whisper. Any attraction I felt for Orion, or any affection—that was a no. A big no. I was glad to be away from Bosk, but any more pity from Orion-the-hero and I’d explode. If I didn’t seem thankful enough, it was because it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough for an Omega in this world until we gained rights. Until we were truly free and lived without fear.
Hell would freeze over before that happened.
Call me an ingrate. But tell me I’m not wrong.
That’s what I kept saying to the mumbles inside my head.
Chapter Twelve
Orion
I knew it from the moment I first saw him at Zilly’s. There was a lot of armor on that one. I very well understood what I was getting into when I made my offer to fake-claim Holland. His spitefulness, his curt disrespect, his insolent hatred of Alphas—why did that intrigue me so? And his startling beauty—it burned straight through my mind.
Was I that bored? So privileged that anything outside my scope of “normal” was exotic?
I could be that shallow, I decided. But I didn’t want to be. No matter what, something about Holland made me want to protect him. That was first and foremost in my thoughts. He could hate me forever, and I’d still feel that urge. If it never turned into more for him, and probably it wouldn’t, I would live knowing he was okay, for I had protected him.
I thought about going back to my office after dinner. There was always work; it was never done. But when I noticed Holland following me—not too close but still there—I turned toward my game room where I had a huge flat screen TV, half a dozen antique pinball machines, air hockey, a pool table, and a sleek, fully stocked bar.
It wasn’t that I wanted to take up drinking. But alcohol was one of those things that relaxed me in college. I’d never been into weed or hard drugs, so that was what I thought of when I needed to calm myself down.
Holland continued to follow me. “Do I get a tour of the place?” he called out just as I opened the door.
“Tomorrow,” I answered. Then I stood in the doorway, and let him enter first.
His eyes widened. His smooth cheeks glimmered in the flickering lights. He’d shaved before dinner. He looked sharp-edged and perfect.
“We have a pool table at Zilly’s,” he commented, glancing at my table in the center of the room.
“Let’s play.”
I hadn’t played in years. In college, we did more outdoor sports to cool off our youthful energy.
To my surprise, Holland, with his cool and precise control, wiped the mat with me on every game.
